I’m a charlatan. A liar, an imposter, a fake and a fraud. Surprisingly, even though I haven’t let Jesus in (I can only imagine he’s still outside then; all sad and disappointed) I do have some kind of moral compass and it’s this which makes me feel uneasy about what my schools expect on a daily basis. My entire teaching career has involved working in Catholic schools and, as such, I am required and expected to perpetuate the Catholic ethos every day. So, even though I’m a godless heathen, with no more right to stomp about on God’s DIY ball than an infanticidal banker Satanist with shares in Nestle’s poverty death milk powder, every morning I lead the shit out of morning prayers.
I suppose I’ve become so used to it now I don’t even think about the ideological hypocrisy it involves, but when it started I was definitely more uncomfortable about the situation. For a start I didn’t know any of the prayers and could only mouth syllable shapes during Mass, that just made me look like I was chewing devil gum in the face of Our (their) Lord Jesus Christ or worse still, attempting to speak in tongues. I was completely clueless about the rituals, the rules and the reverence and squirmed more than Donald Trump at a rights for people other than rich white people conference.
Here’s an example: in my last school there would be a religiousy service for the monsters and once they had been whipped and chaired out of the building at the end of the day, one for staff. The first time this happened I went along with it; sang the songs, bowed in time and joined in with the group amens, but as it finished there was something I hadn’t ever come across. After we’d been grateful/fearful servants for 10 minutes or so, everyone turned to one another and started hugging and shaking hands while all repeating the same thing, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Odd, I thought, but no more odd than drinking a dead man’s blood, so I went along with it. As I went in for hug number six it finally dawned on me – they weren’t pleased to meet me at all. ‘Peace be with you’, I adjusted, hopelessly out of my depth.
Thing is, as will be the case for those damned souls who tag along without any real knowledge of what the tabernacle is going on, I just don’t do it properly. In the morning, when I remember to, we stand behind our chairs and I ask them to be silent for a moment while we think of... I dunno, grandmas and their tireless efforts to give us a quid when we see them? Recently we had a half day and I asked them to thank Jesus for that, but God Junior had nothing to do with it and really we should have been thanking the builders for knocking into a mains water pipe and flooding the science labs. Were the builders carrying out God’s divine will? If so, he can’t have had much on that week.
So you see, I’m a bloody phony. It’s only when I catch myself reverently bowing my head and leading them in praise that I see the ludicrous nature of what I’ve become. My question is this – if He is up there, will this increase my chances of spending eternity amongst the velvety yum-yums? Or has my soon-to-be-over foray into falsity and professional perjury got my name struck off His son’s birthday card list? Oh, that’ll be rich – on top of everything else, the job’s ensured my own everlasting damnation. Oh yeah, that’s just bloody typical.
Hooray for comments! Al, I knew I could depend on you, you wonderful bastard. You make it all worthwhile, with your scene-stealing anecdotes. Please, feel free to steal away again this week. And, of course, Rob. My next hair straightening appointment is on Saturday at 1:30pm. XOXO Gossip Girl.
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